Unwelcome outcomes
by aimeecat
Summary: COMPLETE! AU story that kicks off during the last episode of season two. Dex and Deb. Here be spoilers... Please read and review :
1. Chapter 1

Disclamer: I own nothing...

Chapter 1

I've always enjoyed driving. Usually I find it soothing to launch myself into the mayhem of the Miami freeways, but on route to the marina I'm gripping the wheel, unable to relax into the rush hour madness. I love to eat when I am driving, and with the sun low in the west I would usually be thinking of food; but I'm not. Looking back over recent events I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I have no appetite. My life of late has been a rollercoaster rocketing between hope and despair, and just as dizzy Dexter believed the ride to finally be over, there was an unexpected turn and a sickening drop. I think if I asked her my dear sister would describe my current predicament, in her usual succinct way, as 'utterly fucked'. Of course she may find it hard to give an opinion as she is currently in the trunk, unconscious, gagged and securely trussed with duct tape.

I had been keen to arrange an impromptu playdate with the lascivious Lila. Despite her assistance with the timely deduction of Doakes, she had made it to the top of my list of prospective playmates. She had murdered an innocent man, and I had good reason to believe he was not her first. In addition, she knew about my hobby and that was not a situation I could allow to continue. I have to admit to a certain pleasure knowing that the path that Harry had set me on as the Dark Avenger would meld so seamlessly with his number one rule; don't get caught.

But I had been rash. Buoyed by the reprieve brought by the Doakes' death I had not taken my time or made my usual careful plans. Grabbing the slim, dark haired woman in Lila's apartment I had slipped my needle into her neck. When she swung around and Deb's wide, panicked eyes met mine, I was so stunned I almost didn't catch her as she crumpled into my arms. Cradling her lithe frame I could almost feel my carefully constructed life crashing down around me. I pride myself on seeming harmless and innocent, a perfect model citizen; but I think even I would have some difficulty explaining away stabbing my sister with a hypodermic.

I had never entertained the idea of involving Deb in my hobby. I admit for a while I had toyed with the idea of bearing my lack-of-a-soul to her, but that time had passed. If I believed in any kind of deity, I suppose I would find this situation indicative of some kind of divine judgement for my nocturnal antics. Since I am unencumbered by such ideas however, the only higher power I can blame for this awful mess is myself.

After making the last turn, I pull into the parking lot at the marina. I seemed to be alone, but sitting behind the wheel I take my time to make sure the long shadows cast by the setting sun aren't concealing any late afternoon boating enthusiasts. The sounds of rigging jingling in the breeze and the smell of oil remind me of weekend boating with Harry. All through my formative years he would take us out so we could have privacy for the special education he gave me. I know that if he was here, and knew of this evening's planned denouement, he would be very disappointed.

Not willing to chance being observed moving Deb, I make a few trips between car and boat carrying this and that, carefully checking what I have on board, while keeping an eye out for any movement on land or water. As the sun scrapes the horizon, I am finally convinced I am the only one lurking about and head back to the car for the last of my cargo. Opening the trunk, I look down at my peacefully prostrate sister and can't help but regard her with a certain fondness. I know dear Deborah loves me, although I can't imagine how an otherwise intelligent woman could make such a gross error of judgement. Despite being quite incapable of any kind of familial affection, I have to admit I would definitely prefer Deb to be a part of the world than not. With I sigh, I sling her slight body over my shoulder, wrapped in one of Lila's curtains, and carry her to the boat.

As we putter out into open water the sun drops below the horizon and is replaced by a pale and sickly moon, it's yellow light reflecting off the sea as we reach our final destination. I kill the engine and, after removing the tape from Deb's mouth, sit opposite her. Usually when I am waiting for someone to regain consciousness I have things to do – blades to check, plastic sheet to hang – but tonight all I have is a knife in my hand and my sister at my feet. With a sigh bordering on the theatrical I accept that there is nothing else for it but to be patient. Toying with the blade I watch Deb and realise just how little I am looking forward to what is going to happen when she wakes up.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As I stare at the fat moon hanging heavily above the water I try to relax. The night is warm and even though I can see Miami's night time lights, the light wind blowing onshore keeps the city noises from reaching my ears. The slight rocking of my boat as it rides the slight swell and the gentle lapping of water should help, but Deb's unconscious form lying near my feet is making it difficult to appreciate the tranquillity.

She is my only family. Not that she really is family I suppose; a foster sister only. I had a brother, a _real_ brother, for a while. A brother forgotten, then found, then lost again. Although 'lost' isn't really the best word. I didn't lose him, I know exactly where I left him. I killed the only person who could understand and accept me, the only person I could drop my pretence of humanity around. Killing Brian had been the hardest thing I have ever done, and I did it to keep Deb safe. Watching her now, the irony is not lost on me.

Alerted by small noises coming from dear Deb I place the knife on the deck beside me and watch her regaining consciousness. "Nmph," is all she says for a while and then her eyes slowly open, gradually bringing her world into focus. "Dex?" she queries fuzzily, seeing me at last.

"Hi Deb," I say. Not the most brilliant opening, I admit, but this situation has left me feeling a little out of my depth.

She tries to move her arms and realising she can't, a look of perplexed annoyance crosses her face. Looking down at the tape binding her, she frowns in confusion and struggles against it. When she looks at me again her eyes are clear and a little too wide. "Dex? What the_ fuck?"_

"I have some things that I need to tell you…" I begin, and wince at the banality of the words. I have imagined explaining to my dear sister about my macabre moonlit antics but I could never think of a way to tell her that would turn out well. Maybe if I am boring enough?

"What you _need_ to do," Deb snarls, "Is undo this fucking tape."

Or not.

I try to start again but I don't get any further than her name before being interrupted. "Just tell me what the fuck is going on!" she yells at me, fear and fury fighting for dominance.

_I'm a psychopathic serial killer with dozens of kills to my name and you are trapped with me, alone and unable to defend yourself_. Accurate, but not quite the approach I am going for. My sister's rage and frustration are palpable. If she wasn't restrained I would be inclined to just tell her - she has a punch that will leave your whole arm numb - but I want to try and ease her into this as gently as possible. "I will. I promise. But first, what do you remember?"

Deb looks like she is about to start yelling, but I give her my best serious older brother look, and she subsides. I am stunned; submissive is not the first word I would use to describe Deb. With a look that speaks of the many ways I will suffer for this indignity when she is free, she frowns as she struggles through the mental fog caused by the drug lingering in her system. "I went to Lila's apartment…" she begins, and I am a little in awe. Even though she is tied up, has no idea where she is or what is happening, she trusts me enough to play along.

"I walked in and someone grabbed me…" She makes a frustrated noise, trying to piece her memories together through sheer force of will. I wait, as patiently as I can, for her to remember. Her face darkens again and for the second time tonight I am glad she is restrained. "It was you," she growls. "You grabbed me and stuck me with a fucking needle!" Now we are getting somewhere. "Dex, what the fuck is going on?" Her voice goes shrill as her confusion begins to give way to fear.

Her eyes are locked on mine as I reach down and pick up the knife from the deck beside me. I move slowly, letting my hand come to rest on my knee. The knife is not large, but more that big enough to get Deb's full attention. I've always been privately amused to hear people say that their lives are balanced on a knife's edge, having some quite particular experience with the effect knives can have on people's lives. I doubt they ever meant it as literally as the phrase applies to me now; the knife in my hand defining the break between the comfortable life that I have built, and a very uncertain future.

"You stuck me with a needle…" Deb says again, and I watch her eyes flick from the tape the binds her, to the knife in my hand and back to the tape. I can see her taking it in – tape, needle, knife. It doesn't take her long to make the connection – a chain of evidence leading to a single inevitable conclusion. "No way," she breathes at last, "No _fucking_ way."

She is frightened now, truly afraid. Her eyes are wide and her breathing fast. Even though I can't see her well enough in the moonlight, I know from many years of detailed observation that her pupils are dilated and her skin will be damp with sweat. I am usually keen to observe the various physiological changes brought on by fear, but not tonight. Deb shouldn't have to go through this.

Deb's eyes are wide and unfocussed and she makes a strangled noise in her throat. I don't know what she is thinking, but I can assume that it would probably involve a beloved brother neatly packaging the body parts of his many victims. Staring at me, her eyes are willing me to tell her she is wrong. "But Doakes," she whispers, voice pleading. "It was Doakes."

I shake my head. I don't know what I can say to convince her, but my silence seems to be all the confirmation she needs. Tears slide down her face as she accepts what I am telling her. "_Fuck."_

I couldn't agree more.


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN:**_** Sorry for the slow update - I write at glacial speed at the best of times and real life has this annoying habit of getting in the way of the important stuff :-P**

_**Disclaimer**_: **Not mine. Wish it was  
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Chapter 3**

Deb and I share a silence. It is not the comfortable kind we would normally share, or even the tension charged kind when I have done something to make her angry. This is the oppressive kind of silence shared when something has gone horribly and irrevocably wrong. Tears slide from her blank eyes and I feel something like a knot forming in my stomach; an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation. If I had to guess I would say that it might be guilt, or remorse, or any of the range of similar feelings that I have no real experience with. I may not know what it is, but I do know that I don't like it. As the feeling settles, heavy and unwelcome in my gut, I think I might be willing to go to great lengths not to feel like this again. I can't help but wonder if humans feel like this often; because if they do, it would explain a lot.

"Why me?" Deb asks, breaking the silence at last. "Why now?" Her voice is surprisingly calm and this bothers me, but I can't pinpoint why.

"You're an accident," I tell her, and have to stifle my fond amusement at her purely Deb-like look of outright incredulity. "I was after Lila," I clarify, and as her expression goes from incredulous to horrified, I know further explanation is definitely required. "She killed Doakes."

"Sure she did." My sister, the master of sarcasm.

"Deb," I say, gesturing to our surroundings and relative positions, "I have no reason to lie to you." Deb doesn't look wholly convinced, but I guess if our roles were reversed I wouldn't be easily swayed either. I want to explain to her that everything I tell her tonight will be the truth, but if she doesn't believe me already, _telling_ her I am telling the truth won't help. "It's a long story," I continue, "Not surprisingly it's a story where I'm not a good guy, but she is the one that killed him – not me." Deb considers this then nods slowly, and I am reasonably confident she believes me.

Looking me square in the eye she asks, "You were going to kill her?" I nod, and Deb's eyes narrow, "But you were _fucking_ her."

"Yeah…" I say, but have no idea what should come next. Deb wants more, her expression is easy to read even for me, but I seriously doubt that she would honestly want to discuss my thoughts on the subject. My interest in whether Lila being a former lover would add or detract from the experience of turning her into a slide in my collection is something I think wise to keep to myself.

"Whatever," Deb says, obviously unimpressed by my silence. "Doesn't change that I'm here."

"Yeah…" I say again. Deb knows what I need her to know, and all too quickly the time has come to do what I brought us here to do. With a sigh that is, once again, quite theatrical, I grasp the knife and slowly get to my feet. Deb's wide eyes follow me as I cross the deck, moving slowly so as not to startle her and doing my best not to loom menacingly. This is not as easy as it sounds.

Deb squares her shoulders as I squat beside her. "Just fucking do it," she says quietly and I start at her words. I wasn't expecting this.

"Deb, I-"

"Just do it," she says again, "I don't fucking care."

Her tone, more than her words, finally lets me recognise what has been bothering me about her demeanour tonight. She's calm. Given this situation she should be anything but calm. Given that she is Deb she should be anything but calm – Deb is never calm. My concern grows as I realise this new Dispassionate Deb is not just calm, she is indifferent. After her experience with Brian, and now finding out about my proclivities, something inside her has broken. If I was capable of thinking and feeling like a human I am sure I would have seen this coming.

"I don't want to play your fucking games – just get it over with."

In light of the events of the evening I am convinced that a show of my intent is essential at this juncture – actions speak louder than words. I rifle through the gear I brought on board until my questing hand closes on the item I am looking for. Deb is watching me, unmoving and unmoved, but she frowns when she recognises her service weapon in my hand. I place it beside her on the deck and slice through the tape binding her ankles and wrists before quickly stepping back. She looks more confused than ever as she watches me drop the knife to the deck and kick it away, eyebrows raised in a caricature of surprise.

"I didn't bring you here to hurt you Deb," I tell her softly, "That was never the plan."

Without taking her eyes off me she rips the tape from her arms and legs and picks up the gun. She stands and doesn't break eye contact with me until she removes the weapon from its holster, when she stares at it as though seeing it for the first time.

"I said I didn't want to play games," she murmurs.

I had hoped that being armed would make her feel more safe, more in control, but her expression tells me she is feeling more lost and detached now she has the gun in her hand. Humans are so complicated. "I'm not playing games Deb."

"Don't lie to me!" she yells, "Don't you dare fucking lie to me."

I am relieved to see my feisty foster sister is back, but am a little bewildered by her attitude. Surely dishonesty is the least of my sins?

"I know what you sick fucks are like," the revulsion in Deb's voice is enough to make me flinch, "It's more fun when your playthings believe what you tell them, when they trust you."

I don't know what to say to this last outburst so I remain silent, shaking my head in mute denial. Standing with my palms showing, in a universal stance of surrender and supplication, I am starting to doubt the brilliance of giving Distressed Deb a weapon. This is the second stupid thing I have done this evening; acting rashly without thinking through the possible consequences. I am starting to wonder if this could be the start of a dangerous new trend for me.

"So what's the game Dex - blanks?" she asks, peering at the gun again before flicking off the safety and raising her arm to aim down the barrel. Judging by the look on Deb's face and her steady shooting stance I am suddenly less concerned about future trends in my behaviour.

"They're not blanks."

Deb's look tells me that she doesn't believe me but to my immense relief she lowers the gun a little anyway. "You're a fucking psycho. All you know how to do is fuck with people's heads, just like him."

Just like him. I know she is talking about Brian and I can hear her pain as her voice cracks. Maybe a human would feel compassion for her now, or even empathy, but I'm not human so all I feel is angry - at myself for my stupidity, at Brian for the damage he has done to Deb, and at Deb for failing to realise I how different from him I am.

"You're just like him!" she screams.

"I'm nothing like Brian!" I yell back at her, anger getting the better of me and robbing me for a moment of the capacity for rational thought.

Deb's attention snaps to me and in one quick move the gun is trained on me again. Her eyes narrow suspiciously, "Who the fuck is Brian?"

Damn. This is why I am content to be, typically, free of emotion. It isn't sensible to yell at an unstable woman holding a loaded gun, although tonight has been all about rash actions so I suppose that I am at least being consistent. However, it is not the yelling that I am regretting now, but the foolishness of mentioning Brian's name. My relationship with 'Rudy' was one can of worms I had no intention of opening tonight. In her current state, telling Deb the truth about Brian could well be a hazard to my health and continued well being, but now that I have blurted out his name there is really no way that I can not tell her.

"You knew him as Rudy, but his real name was Brian," I say, voice neutral, "And he was my brother."

Deb makes an unpleasant, strangled sound and sways a little, but her aim is alarmingly steady. "You sick _fucks_."

Double damn. Deb's finger tightens on the trigger and in the same instant I realise she is going to shoot I dive to the deck hoping to dodge a non-metaphorical bullet. Pain explodes in my shoulder as it connects with the deck, but it's nothing compared to the agony of the hot metal tearing through the flesh of my upper arm.

While I struggle to prop myself up against the side of the boat, I can't help but smile at how the worm has turned; the damaged victim who was bound and helpless is now standing over my bleeding body, armed and determined. My smile fades when Deb steps closer and takes aim again. I let out a long sigh, and this one is hopelessly histrionic, but I suppose if you are doing something for the last time you might as well make the most of it. If I am honest with myself, and at this point I can think of no reason not to be, I knew when I gave Deb her gun this was going to be the most likely finale for our evening.

My wounded arm throbs and as I return the gun's monocular gaze I wonder, somewhat randomly, at my sudden obsession with worm imagery.

_**TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

Well we have reached the final episode and I would like to say a big thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story and particularly to those who have been kind enough to post a review. Your words mean the world to me!!

Please enjoy this final installment and if you have any feedback - positive or negative - I would truly love to hear from you!

_**Disclaimer:** wish it were mine, but it ain't._

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Chapter 4

While the gentle rise and fall of the ocean is mirrored by the movement of the deck, Deb's stance is sure and her aim unwavering. Her face, however, is animated with every flighty thought contorting her features as evidence of its passage. Countless emotions flow through her as we keep to our tableau and of them I can identify rage, confusion and betrayal. With the moon full behind her she looks, if a simile is required, like an avenging angel preparing to pass judgement. I know Deb and I have no doubt as to the sentence she will bestow, so I close my eyes and wait for her to squeeze the trigger.

Instead of the expected crack of a gunshot ringing out across the water I hear a soft click as she flicks on the safety. I crack an eye and watch her slip the gun into the waistband at the small of her back and pick up the knife from where it had skittered across the deck. She crosses to where I am sitting and squats in front of me, staring at the blade. I know I could disarm her, but even if I could be sure of doing so without injuring her nothing would have changed. I suppose there is some kind of poetry in this; that I will die as my brother died, but at the hands of my sister. It is the moon's familiar face I turn to; the soon to be departed Dexter bathed in moonlight.

I feel the blade against my skin, but in a most unexpected way, sliding under what is left of my shirtsleeve. I glance down and see Deb slicing the thin fabric to properly expose the ragged gash near my shoulder. She examines the wound, determinedly keeping her focus on my arm. "He was really your brother?"

"Yeah." I cannot conceive of her intentions, but she isn't doing anything unpleasant with the knife so I take this as a good sign.

She leaves my side briefly to retrieve the first aid kit I keep well stocked in case Rita's kids ever have an accident with a fish hook or filleting knife. Selecting what she needs she asks, "Are you sorry he killed himself?"

I gasp as she cleans my wound and would normally comment on her rough approach, but since it only feels like she is trying to kill me, I endeavour to be stoic under the onslaught of iodine and gauze. "Sometimes I'm sorry he's gone," I tell her and am a little surprised to discover this is true, "But he didn't kill himself."

Her hands cease their busy ministrations and she sits back on her heels, eyebrows scraping her hairline as she realises the implication of what I have said. I didn't want her response to my candid confessions to be influenced by my part in Brian's ignominious end, but I answer the question I know she wants to ask. "I had to make a choice. I chose you."

Deb's eyes briefly find mine before she returns to tending my damaged flesh. "Arsehole."

Apparently I needn't have worried that her gratitude might cloud the issue. The unexpected and ridiculous events of the evening are finally too much and despite my best efforts to behave, I can't suppress the near hysteria building inside me. I laugh and Deb starts in surprise. When my guffawing finally devolves into giggles I am gratified to see she is trying to stifle a smile.

I grin at her, slipping easily into the role of goofy older brother, and Deb rolls her eyes, "Don't look at me like that. You look like a fucking moron."

"I feel like one," I tell her and laugh again, enjoying the freedom of it. "I can't begin to understand why you're doing this."

Deb shrugs but doesn't comment as she packs away the various implements of torture. I examine her work and when my investigative fingers poke too hard, I wince and make a sound embarrassingly like a whimper. "Why do people keep shooting me?" The question is intended as rhetorical but Deb's look answers it regardless; a look that tells me that my homicidal hobby is more than reason enough.

Her face is serious when she asks me, "Why'd you bring me here?"

A fair question in the circumstances. "I needed you to listen to what I told you and really believe me, I don't think admitting you're a serial killer is something you can just tell someone over a box of donuts." Deb snorts at this and shakes her head disbelievingly. "I did promise I'd untie you," I say, hoping I don't sound as petulant as I feel.

"And I'm just supposed to take the word of a mass murderer unburdening his soul, am I?"

I am about to point out that mass murderers and serial killers are quite different but I think better of it. Semantics aside, I nod in defeat and admit, "Fair point."

I expect her to move away from me now, to put some distance between us, so I'm quite bewildered when she chooses instead to sit beside me. While her choice of physical proximity gives me the tiniest glimmer of hope that she might be able to accept what I've told her, it does make me doubt her ability to make rational decisions.

"You're not frightened of me?" I ask, honestly curious.

Deb shrugs. "I'm armed."

"I think you know I could take you." I say, and Deb gives me a venomous look clearly unimpressed. "I have lot of experience grabbing people."

Deb's lips purse and her eyes narrow as she says, "I wouldn't have my gun if you were going to hurt me."

My need to understand things, to have all the elements of a problem neatly and tidily organised, is an advantage when dealing with blood splatter, but not so useful when dealing with people. Not recognising the significance of the change in her body language I say, "But I could have been toying with you, or testing you or –"

"For fucks sake shut up!" Deb yells. Taking a deep breath she continues in a more subdued, if shaky tone, "I have to take what you are telling me on face value, I can't second guess you, I just can't."

Her eyes are pleading and I belatedly remember how traumatic this evening has been. Chagrined by my inability to empathise, I look away and we both sit in meditative silence. "So what now?" I ask at last.

"I have no fucking idea."

"I won't stop you turning me in."

Deb cocks a single brow in disbelief, "Yeah right."

Rather than speaking I let my expression tell her I mean what I say. She searches my eyes for any hint that I'm deceiving her before glancing away. "Shit," she says, and I know what she means. I'm in it up to my ears.

Deb stares at the deck for a while and I assume she is mulling over what to do with me. "The people you choose," she begins, selecting that last word with painstaking care, "Why them?"

She has a pretty good idea why, but I answer her anyway. "They're murderers, paedophiles – all sorts of very bad people."

"You're sure?" A very reasonable question.

"Completely. I'm very thorough and very selective."

Now would be a logical time to tell Deb about Harry's instructional involvement in my admittedly unusual upbringing. I am about to do just that when it occurs to me that while she has coped better than expected with what I've told her, discovering her father ran an impromptu training course for a fledgling psychopath might be pushing it. Instead I say, "I can't help what I do, but I can direct it."

Her face is unreadable as she processes what I have told her. "You're my brother Dex," she says at last, "But I don't know if I can ever be ok with this."

I nod my understanding, and try to conceal my astonishment that she is even considering the possibility. "Whatever happens next - it's up to you."

Deb contemplatively chews her lower lip, her features and demeanour giving me no indication as to the destination of her train of thought. The outcome of this evening's escapade is in her hands and I have no intention of interrupting her deliberations. I settle in to wait and contemplate a bleak future behind bars. I briefly consider that it might have been preferable if she had shot me as she intended, but a twinge from my ravaged arm convinces me otherwise.

A sigh from Deb and I know she has reached her decision and I eye her with trepidation as she slowly gets to her feet. With regal poise she looks down at me as she passes judgement, "Let's go home".

Stupefied, I blink up at her as hope blossoms that tonight will not end with my immediate incarceration. I open my mouth but Dumfounded Dexter is unable to speak. With a fleeting smile at my fishlike expression, she nods and holds out her hand. Her grip is firm and her palm dry as she helps me to my feet and I am, not for the first time, struck by my sister's remarkable resilience.

We do not speak as I start the engine and turn the boat around, aiming for Miami. The expansive neon glows brighter and noise starts flowing faintly over the water and it is as if the city is growing and coming alive as we approach. Deb takes up position at the prow with her back to me. I know this could be taken as a sign of contempt, but after my expressions of murderous mea culpa her ability to calmly turn her back it is a sign of trust that I value more than I would have thought possible. We share a comfortable silence as we putter back to shore.

When we reach the wharf I make sure the boat is secure and as Deb disembarks I gather our gear from the deck. "Slice of life," she says, reading the name of my proud vessel, "You're one sick fuck, Dex." I don't feel that I am in any position to argue with that assessment, so I shrug and clamber onto the wharf beside her. Deb helps me with the bags and we cross the parking lot to my car. She doesn't speak again until our gear is safely stowed in the trunk.

"Would you change things if you could and bring him back?" Brian - dead but not forgotten.

"And miss all this fun?" My facetiousness is rewarded with a threatening look, but thankfully not one of her high velocity arm punches.

"I'm satisfied I made the right choice," I say, not surprised to find this is true, "But you need to be happy with yours."

"I am," she says, "For now."

I suppose that is the best I can hope for, and realistically far more than I deserve.

"What now?" Deb asks.

"Well, I don't know about you," I say, goofy grin in place, "But I'm starving."


End file.
